


Cavernous

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Gen, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Post-Season/Series 03, Suicide, Unrequited Love, suicide idealation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John discovers Sherlock's drug use wasn't just "for a case."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cavernous

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly) point out any errors!

“You’re high again.” John’s eyes narrowed; his smile all teeth.

“Clever observation.” Sherlock flippantly flounced around him, to grab his Belstaff. He recognized John’s dangerous smile, but found he didn’t care.

“What the HELL, Sherlock!” John slammed his palm against the doorframe, the echo bouncing down the stairs. “What happened to ‘it was for a case’?”

“I lied. Obviously.”

“How could you- bloody hell- Jesus fuck!” John stuttered, enraged, and balled up his fists against his eyes.

Sherlock saw his distress and thought he should feel something inside. Maybe the hollow warmth of vengeance, or sadness, possibly guilt. Those were the typical emotions, he was quite sure, but he couldn’t muster anything, just the physical sensations that came with the cocaine. Maybe if he provoked John, John might hit him. That might feel like something new.

“I’m bored. If you’re going to lecture me, do it on the way.” He checked the wad of cash in his pocket, and jumped down half the stairs. His mind buzzed, the cool draft tingled his scalp as it breezed through his hair. He threw his hand up for a cab and one stopped before John recovered from his hasty departure. He heard John trample down the stairs behind him, and knew before it happened that John would twirl him around by the shoulder and slam him into the waiting black vehicle. He prided himself on not flinching when it occurred.

“No! We’re not going anywhere! I’m dragging your arse upstairs, cuffing you to your own goddamned chair and calling your bloody brother.”

“No, John, you’re not.” Of this, Sherlock was positive. He had no qualms about pushing back against John Watson. John, who hadn’t waited for him. John, who’d married Mary. John, who hadn’t come to visit in 5 weeks, and was likely only here because Lestrade mentioned he wasn’t taking cases anymore.

John glared, the deadly smile waning and replaced with teeth barred and a dark laugh, “And tell me why not.”

Sherlock leaned into to speak softly into John’s ear, “Because John, you’ve never come between me and my next hit.” Without warning, he pulled back, head butted John and punched hard into his wounded shoulder. John stumbled back, and Sherlock took the few seconds John’s surprise afforded him to enter the cab and lock the door. “Ten more pounds in it for you if you go right now, no questions,” he barked at the cabbie, and then sped off as John tried to pound on the window.

He knew John would be furious. He was glad for it. Perhaps this time he’d stay away. Every time he saw John, another wound opened, another empty cavern in his chest only filled with nothingness. Each time, John broke him further, and Sherlock was certain he’d be nothing but a shell if John insisted on his sporadic visits.

-o-

When he arrived back to Baker St, he was a few hundred pounds lighter, and several grams richer in cocaine, heroin, and fentanyl. When he saw the state of the knocker (Mycroft had arrived; John had called him, the idiot), he hid his stash in a false brick in the alley. One spot Mycroft had yet to find. His high he’d refreshed with a hit shared with Spade, his newest dealer, when he’d brought the product. He felt, well, just sensation. He still couldn’t access any emotion, any cares or worries or affections, and he supposed it was high time he lived up to the sociopath he claimed to be.

“For a case, brother?” Mycroft mocked him with his own words as soon as he entered the flat. Sherlock had little patience to deal in their typically subtle, nuanced, wordless conversations.

“Fuck off, Mycroft.”

“Charming.”

“I have little need to charm you or anyone else. Get out.”

“John worries about you. As do I.”

“Caring is not an advantage.” Sherlock parroted back.

“Damn it, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice rose slightly as he tapped his umbrella hard against the wood flooring.

Sherlock smirked at his loss of control. “Why does it matter? I won’t fuck up your national security. There’s nothing else for me to affect. I’m not even sure why you bother.”

“Mummy and Father will be distraught to learn you’ve fallen back into your old ways.”

“They won’t be surprised at all. You’ve all been expecting it for years. I’ve simply allowed your predictions come true. Happy Christmas.”

“What about the Work? Gregory won’t allow you back on the scene if you’re indulging again.”

“I haven’t taken a case in weeks.”

“Surely there is something more productive you could be doing.” Mycroft admonished.

“WHY DOES IT MATTER?” Sherlock had lost his temper with the conversation, and his high was rapidly diminishing. “The Work doesn’t matter, sobriety doesn’t matter, nothing fucking matters!” Sherlock pulled at his hair, and dropped himself down in his chair. Mycroft just didn’t understand. There was no point. The hollowness of his chest, the blankness of meaning. The Work happened or it didn’t; nothing changed. There was no excitement, anymore. Moriarty could walk in his door and he’d still turn and hope he’d be shot in the back.

And that was it really. He just wanted to destroy himself. He wanted to feel something other than emptiness. He just wanted to die.

-o-

Mycroft left, eventually, placing a man outside his door. Sherlock avoided the man by dropping out his own window to fetch the drugs he’d hidden, and brought them into the kitchen for experimentation. He tried to delight in the chemistry of the matter, finding the perfect blend for the perfect high, but even the purity of chemistry failed to interest him. He dabbled with formulas, with blends, and practiced them all on himself.

He couldn’t synthesize the feelings. Not excitement, not interest, not enjoyment of any sort. He left the building, followed by his unwanted bodyguard, to buy liquor. He dropped another hundred pounds on a variety, and soon found himself, dulled and uncaring on the sofa, melted into its over worn cushions, in a stupor. If he couldn’t feel anything, better to be stupidly, thickly unaware of it.

He was roused by a slap, and dimly recognized John’s small frame before blinking out again. He felt his body be dragged, half supported by the man under him, half along the floor, until the room brightened. Ah, the bathroom. He was left, on the cool tile, and he felt it, the sensation dulled against his cheek, when the soft hum of the showerhead filled the room. His dressing gown fell off, and his pajama bottoms removed.

He felt the tile leave him, and his body maneuvered again without his permission, and he felt it drop into cold ceramic. Belatedly, he felt the spray of cool water, and he flailed half heartedly. He realized John was speaking, and tried to concentrate on the words.

“Bloody, fucking wanker. Why the fuck do I attract fucking addicts and junkies? Why does everyone I care about try to drown themselves in substance abuse?” John muttered. “George, Harry, now my posh git of a best friend.”

_Best friend? That wasn’t right. They hadn’t really been friends for… for months. Since he’d stepped back off the plane. Damned plane. Damned video._ Sherlock wished he’d just gone to Eastern Europe. His memories of John would be untainted, unsullied by the subsequent neglect he’d felt. He’d rather be dead, heart brimming with emotions, all for John until his last moment, than alive, right here, right now, emotions having poured out of the bullet hole in his chest as the hours and days and weeks went by without John. He’d chosen John, but John hadn’t chosen him.

“No.” Sherlock slurred, possibly several seconds too late for it to make any sense. “Five weeks.”

“What? You with me, Sherlock?” John sounded relieved at Sherlock’s voice.

“No. Not with you. Alone.” Sherlock shook his head slowly, and then stopped as nausea began to creep up on him.

“I’m here, it’s okay. We’ll get you taken care of.” John tried to place a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder reassuringly.

“No!” Sherlock shouted, jerking his body away from John. The motion made him sick, and he leaned forward to vomit down the shower drain. He hadn’t eaten, and he stared densely at the coffee ground like sick. Somewhere, dimly, he recognized it was problematic. This was the trouble with alcohol. _Too dulling; brain didn’t work right._ But the vacant cavern felt less empty, even it was sloshed full of spirits instead. He decided he didn’t care. He curled into himself, and closed his eyes.

“Shit!” John spat out. He reached for his phone and placed a call.

-o-

Sherlock awoke, disappointingly sober, in a hospital bed. He’d been sedated for some time, probably two days, based on the growth of his facial hair. His throat felt sore, and he recalled the coffee ground vomit, and realized he’d probably had an upper GI endoscopy, looking for the source of bleeding in his gastro-intestinal tract. The sedation doubled as a withdrawal tactic, allowing him to pass the worst of the symptoms, though he felt fairly miserable at the moment anyways.

He looked around the room. No one was there. He looked for signs that someone might be down the hall, or at the cafeteria. Nothing. No one was here, waiting for him. No one had been here recently. The caverns inside him deepened, the void echoing as it opened further. Why was he even here?

There was, however, a note, scrawled on the back of a napkin near the rolling tray next to his bed. “Call me. John.” Sherlock crumbled it and tossed it in the trash. Why did John still pretend to care? He’d moved on. He looked at the equipment attached to himself, and estimated it’d take four to six minutes once he’d removed it for the nurse to arrive. The IV drip was saline and a benzodiazepine. He wasn’t planning on being in withdrawal for much longer, so they weren’t an issue. He pulled up the hospital map in his head; yes, he could get out before anyone noticed he’d left. He acted quickly, dressing in what he could; a pair of pajama pants and his dressing gown, the items John had removed from him when he’d unceremoniously tossed him in the cold shower.

He slipped out the door and down a back stairwell and was well onto the street before he got the text from Mycroft, <Where are you? MH>. He ignored the text. Mycroft would see soon enough that he was on his way back to Baker St.

And not long after that, it wouldn’t matter anymore.

-o-

Immediately upon entering 221B, he fixed his sober state. The pain and sickness melted and he felt sharp and capable and ready for his next task. He mixed up a neat cocktail, a high level of fentanyl (that would ideally, put him to sleep before the symptoms of respiratory distress and seizures overtook his body), mixed with the heroin (to allow him relief from the deep cavernous ache in the most blissful way possible). He felt nothing, looking at the solution he pulled into the needle, except perhaps a detached sense of finality.

He heard the door open, footsteps up the stairs. He didn’t bother hiding the solution more securely than behind his back, he’d make more if John got over eager. He turned in his stool to glare at John as he came up the stairs.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock! I get a call that you’ve escaped the hospital, and you’re in your kitchen, getting high! Again! What the hell happened to you?” John sounded more sad than angry this time.

“You.” The confession slipped out before Sherlock could stop it.

“What?” John’s face was so reminiscent of their first meeting at Bart’s. _Right before I fell in love._

“You happened.”

“What does that even mean?”

  1. “I was a junkie before you, why is it any surprise that I’ve returned to old habits after you?”



“After me? I’m still here!” John protested, but Sherlock heard the quaver of guilt behind his voice. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need John to feel guilt, he needed John to go away.

“Five weeks. Five weeks until you showed up last Thursday, because you found out I hadn’t been taking cases. I accept that you’ve moved on with your life, please do me the same courtesy.”

John let out a hollow laugh, “Moved on? Is that what you’re doing?”

“Yes.” _No. Giving up._

Sherlock heard the ping of John’s phone.

“A text from your wife, no doubt, wondering where you are. Run along home, to your murderous shrew of a wife and your whining brat. I don’t need you.” _Insult him, his family. Maybe he’ll leave._

“You don’t need me? I’m pretty sure you’d be dead right now if I hadn’t stopped by Saturday.”

“Yes, that was most inconvenient.” Leave it to John to remind him he could be dead already. Sherlock was filled with longing for the unnoticed syringe on the table.

John slammed his fist into the wall, leaving cracked plaster. “Inconvenient!? Are you trying to bloody off yourself?” _Obviously._

“It’d certainly be preferable to this conversation.”

“This isn’t funny, Sherlock.”

“No, it’s not. I can’t seem to get you to leave. I’m not so sure why you care now.”

“When have I ever not cared about you?” _When you left me for her._

“Your wife murdered me.”

“ _Attempted_ ,” John corrected, “And **you** were the one to convince me to forgive her!”

“It wasn’t so attempted when I was dead on the table.” Sherlock dismissively revealed.

John paled. “What? No. No. You said- you _told_ me-”

“You didn’t know?” Sherlock smirked. _Maybe he’d leave now._

Instead, John sagged against the wall, slid down and now sat on the kitchen floor. _I don’t want you here for this._

“I am not your life anymore. You’re the boring doctor with the boring house in the boring suburbs with the boring family and I don’t fit because I’m not BORING!” As he yelled, Sherlock swiped at a few empty flasks on the table just to hear them shatter against the wall and watch John flinch.

John’s voice was soft, and broken, “That doesn’t mean I can’t still care.”

“You see Stamford regularly. Lestrade too. But not me. I’m the one you tossed out.”

“It’s not the same with you. I can catch a pint with Mike, with Greg. With you I could be gone for two days, or kidnapped. You’re just so much more… intense.”

“It was only intense because it was you.” Sherlock confessed, his mouth bypassing his brain’s permission. _Shit._

John looked up, confused, “Are you saying- You have feel… intense about me? Do you have feelings for me?”

“I don’t feel anything anymore. It’s a great empty cavern and if you’ll kindly get the fuck out, I’m going to attempt to fill it with a most glorious high.” _Diversion; let’s get back on the drugs._

“Oh!” John exclaimed, in realization. _Not the reaction I was expecting._ “Oh! I can help you with this. Sherlock, this is depression. You’re depressed. It’s your brain, working against you. We can make it better. You don’t have to self-medicate this.” He pulled out his mobile and began to text.

John stood up, and drew Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock stiffened; in days past, this affectionate contact might have elicited warmth, tingles, a stirring in his cock, but now, it just felt suffocating. John pulled back, “Promise me, Sherlock. Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous tonight. I can help you feel again, I promise.”

_What’s the point, if I don’t get you? Why attempt to feel again, when it will only be pain?_

Sherlock nodded, “I promise.”

John backed up, “You sure? Are you sure you’re going to be fine?” He searched Sherlock’s eyes for confirmation.

Sherlock said, in complete honesty, “I’ll be fine, John.”

John seemed assuaged by the truth in his eyes, “I’m going to make arrangements tonight, and I’ll be back in the morning.” He seemed relieved at the prospect of fixing Sherlock, of a diagnosis he could treat. “Will you be here in the morning?”

“Yes, John. Go. Make your little arrangements.” Sherlock waved him off, annoyed. John smiled, taking the tone as a positive sign.

“Right. Okay, then,” John confirmed, then bounded down the stairs, mobile in hand.

Sherlock waited for the door downstairs to open, then close. He strode over to the window and waited for John to slide into in a cab. When the vehicle drove off, Sherlock returned to the solution in the syringe. He tied off his arm, found the vein, and slid the needle in. He felt the rush of the drugs in his system. He supposed he should feel bad about lying to John, but that was rather the point, then, wasn’t it?

By the time John would realize he’d been deceived, Sherlock wouldn’t be feeling anything at all.


End file.
